


..Berlin.

by lazlong



Category: Gone With the Wind - Margaret Mitchell, NCIS
Genre: F/F, F/M, Magic Realism, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18824623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazlong/pseuds/lazlong
Summary: Scarlet, her daughter, is all wrong. Is amiss. Awry.





	..Berlin.

**Author's Note:**

> 30 minute writing challenge.

_Gerald O'Hara, he was her life-line._

Blank and lank her childhood as it was, leaving few memories, coldness and precision of discipline of her Mother and warmth of Mammy.. it all came up and burning with life for few short years she lived for real, when Philippe looked at her, really looked and saw _her_. Touched. Spoke. Saw. Her. Not her family, not her father, not her dowry. But her, Ellie.

Then, his death came. Oh, she cried, she did. Oh, Mammy, the silly girl, saw it and cried with her, cried and then fell asleep, promptly.

But what she did not see, was her - fifteen, mad with grief and bent on revenge, and blood-lust - tiptoeing down, down, down and taking the gun, the old-fashioned one, the one her _father,_ strict and proper one, was so proud of it.

And thinking, standing with bare feet on bare, polished floor, thinking for a _very_ long time, how easy it would be to take them down (Father), one by one (Father and Pauline), all of them (Father and Pauline and Eulalie), all those who took away the only one mattered to her. Phillipe.

She hates smell of magnolia, still; it makes her see red and look for a gun, and for a guilty to be punished. And there is irony, she couldn't decide between gun and knife, and so in her indecision morning came, and first hustle of house; and she woke up. Regretfully.

_So, yes, Gerald was her life-line. Because if not for him, she wouldn't have traveled_ till _the monastery. There is no God.. what true and just God would have allowed Phil to die, and her sanctimonious relatives to live?_

So Ellain O'Hara, nee Robbilard, did not expect anything in her life, anymore, except death.

Nothing really could surprise her, nothing could touch.

Oh, she went through the motions of love and grief, and taking care, for it is dangerous to differ, unwise to want something - you value something, and _they_ learn it, it will be taken away from you.

She went through pregnancies and did not rejoice, when healthy daughters was born. Because, whatever she loved, will be taken from her. So no joy came out of it.

She went through pregnancies, and did not despair, when healthy sons died. Because she already knew that will happen. But it hurt, hurt, hurt. Three empty lives, truncated. There is no God, because _they,_ small and vulnerable, have done no evil. But they died. In vain.

_Gerald saved her. From herself. From others._

Sometimes, she wondered.

What kind of youngster he, Gerald, has been, in his youth ( _so far ago, when her Father, may he be cursed long and hard, in the deepest recesses of Hell, had been young boy himself and her Mother, a bride, in love with herself_ ); when _he_ was fifteen, and far-far away, on green hills of his homeland, lifetime and a generation away?

What, what if they had met then? In his fifteen and her fifteen? Would there be passion and all-consuming love? For other times, there was something, some kindred part of Phillipe in Gerald, in the reckless way he jumped the fences, argued of trice-damned politics or looked at her. And it allured her, allured to the point of asking about Ireland, of Gerald's boy-days, of his brothers. And mother. Who was still alive! Will the wonders never cease. And he told, tale after tale, and she did not really listen to him, but to his voice, to his passion of living, and what she saw brought peace in her, for few hours. And grateful she was.

_Gerald saved her. But couldn't save their daughters, for they were cursed with their birth; they were girls, ergo cursed for loss and sufferings._

Three. Living, for now. No matter, their lives will end with marriage of birth of children, that will bring death in one way or another. She knows, how it will be, and nothing can surprise her - no petty worries, no childish struggles. For everything is in vain, and will end in death.

And so, in the limbo between death and life, punishing herself with never-ending work for not daring to end real guilty (Father and Pauline and Eulalie and priest), something catches her attention and forces her to look twice, stopping in her endless way to helping, just before she steps in carriage.

Shock is so sharp, she stops and turns and looks.

_Scarlett._

_She is wrong._

_This is not her daughter._

Her face is off, so off, that it takes a long moment to understand what is not the way it should be: her eldest looks right into her eyes, unblinking, unwavering; mouth pressed into thin, harsh line. No smile, no fluttering of lashes, no dimples.

Nothing.

She moves all wrong, sharp and alert, confident and not lady-like at all; more like hunters and cowboys than her petite beauty of the daughter. No swinging hips, no lady-like hands.

Her back is ramrod straight, feet ready to move, hands ready to kill, mouth - ready to deceive.

She knows her: it is not Scarlett, it is her, Ellie. In the long mirror, in hall just next to Father's bedroom, with gun in one hand and knife in another. And bare feet on bare floor, bent on killing and running.

She is desperate of _out:_ of here and now.

_Watching, seeing, judging,_ and finding her lacking.

Her, Ellain Robilliard. How dare she! Hot and cold goes through her, heart beating so fast, she has almost forgotten the feeling. Feeling of being alive, threatened,  _wanting something._

Now, she is in _now._ Turning back to the carriage, dismissing the Mammy and carriage with few words, sending on their way, to the white _neighbors_. Slatteries can take care of themselves, there something much more interesting. Worth finding out. Worth living.

Blood soars high, and from the contempt in green gaze, even if it is from stranger in her house and her daughter's body, first time in seventeen years Ellain wakes up, eyes wide and heart beating in the neck, heart trembling and legs  - bringing closer and closer.

-Scarlett?


End file.
